


Bargains

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Kink Meme, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Queen in the North sends her Lord Commander to handle trade negotiations with Highgarden, and Jaime finds his patience and wherewithal sorely tested by Willas Tyrell and his terms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bargains

Jaime wonders, sometimes, whether she sends him here as a test. She’s forever going on about how impulsive he is, how impetuous and impertinent; perhaps she means to force him into an even temper by having him treat with these cretins and simpletons under her name. After his brief imprisonment at Highgarden several moons past ( _all a ridiculous misunderstanding; they’ve no sense of humor, these fools in the Reach_ ), Jaime has worked to curb his tongue, to hold down his fire, to conduct himself with the dignity expected of the Queen in the North’s Lord Commander.   
  
The effort is exhausting, and he realizes too late that he’s reached the end of his paltry store of patience.   
  
“Tyrell,” he snarls at the man sitting opposite him, his jaw clenched and his eyes shut, “what is it that you want?”   
  
When he opens his eyes again, he finds Willas Tyrell watching him with that impossibly serene expression, the one that infuriates Jaime more than any insult or threat ever could. It had been his brother Garlan who’d sent Jaime to the dungeons after that other visit; Willas had shaken his head and declared it all unnecessary-  _but he did nothing to stop it, either._   
  
“Please understand, I have no wish to be difficult,” Willas begins, thoroughly unfazed by the bristling lion on the other side of the table.  _Sansa would be delighted- perhaps he should be her Lord Commander._  Jaime searches the other man’s face for some sign of the wicked, wild spark that used to illuminate the sweet brown eyes of his brother and sister- but he finds nothing but calm.    
  
This only stokes the peevish anger within him, and he feels his left hand clench into a fist.    
  
He hardly trusts himself to speak, but there’s really no choice: “Wool is what we have to trade. Wool, wool, and more wool. If you don’t  _want_  wool, then I’m not sure that there’s any further point to this negotiation...unless there’s something else. Is there something else we can do for you, Lord Tyrell?”   
  
“Please sit, Ser Jaime,” Willas says- Jaime does not even realize that he’s risen from his seat before the Lord of Highgarden brings it to his attention. He drops unceremoniously down into his chair while the other man speaks, “There is no need to cut the negotiation short, I don’t think.”   
  
“Then what-” His cheeks burn red, and he takes a deep inhale through his nose. “Is it coin you want?”  _It’s money, it’s always money with these people._  Jaime is prepared to make Willas Tyrell an offer of coin- an empty offer, to be sure, as he’s already promised gold to every lord from here to the Wall. He cannot hope to make good on even half of these deals; he can only claim half the assets of Casterly Rock, and in spite of the Lannister family’s reputation for obscene, unspeakable wealth, there is a definite bottom to the coffer, and he can see it plainly now.    
  
But Willas only replies with a good-natured laugh. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but Casterly Rock’s wealth isn’t quite what it once was. My coin store far surpasses yours now...I’ve no need for gold.”   
  
_Then **what**  do you  **want** , you tedious cripple?_   
  
“In that case, I’m afraid I cannot begin to guess what we can offer you, my lord.” Jaime stretches his lips into a flat line; Tywin Lannister wore this expression often, its unnerving neutrality the closest that Jaime’s father ever came to smiling. “But the journey here was long, and I’m feeling rather fatigued. I’m really in no condition to play at riddles.”    
  
Willas laughs again; Jaime listens carefully, preparing to pounce on any hint of mockery or derision. But there’s nothing but friendly pleasantness in the sound. “You may tell your lady that she’ll have all of the fruit and grain she needs for the rest of the year. All I ask in return is that she take a few moments to read this letter and to consider its contents.”    
  
He slides the parchment across the table to Jaime, neatly-folded and pressed shut with a rose-shaped seal.   
  
“And what might those contents be?” Jaime inquires. When Willas hesitates, the Lord Commander of the North leans forward, his voice quiet and nearly menacing.    
  
“All of her correspondence goes through me first. So either you tell me what’s in this letter, or I rip this pretty seal open and find out for myself.”    
  
Willas lifts his eyebrows, but his tone remains unperturbed. “It is a request for Queen Sansa to reconsider my suit. I’d like her to allow me to court her and then, if it pleases Her Grace, to accept my proposal of marriage.”   
  
Jaime’s throat tightens, and his attempt at laughter sounds more like the barking of one of those damnable dogs at Willas’ feet. “If you think for a moment that Queen Sansa will leave the North for Highgarden-”   
  
“I don’t think that at all. If she were to accept, I would leave Highgarden to my brother Garlan and would go North to rule at her side as her consort.”   
  
“Not as her King?” Green eyes latch onto brown, and an undeniable current of challenge passes between the two men.   
  
“I doubt that she would have it so, and I would never ask it of her.” There’s something nearly sheepish about the way Willas shifts in his chair and tilts his head; it’s the first ripple Jaime has seen in the man’s remarkable placidness.    
  
“It would be a good match, beneficial for both sides. We’ve long been allies, but a marriage would seal Highgarden to the North, and the people above the Neck will never want for freshly-grown food.”    
  
“Indeed, the bounty of Highgarden would be very welcome in our barren wasteland,” Jaime replies wryly, a furrow appearing in his brow. “But what exactly does the North have that you would want?”   
  
“Well, there’s land, for a start. Queen Sansa rules a vast kingdom, and her ties to the Vale are very strong...” Willas’ words trail away, and a faint but unmistakable blush appears on his cheeks. “She’s an admirable woman. Strong and kind and fair-minded...I believe that we would suit each other well.”    
  
Jaime’s stomach twists at that- if Willas had said something lascivious, if he’d commented on her fine figure or even on her fair face, then the Lord Commander would be able to summon up his contempt. But when he speaks so sincerely... _and it’s true, they would suit very well_ ...he can do nothing but grit his teeth and clench his hand tightly around the parchment.   
  
“You could have done away with the trade negotiations and simply sent a raven...I dare say it would have been less expensive.”    
  
“I want her to know that I mean this seriously.” Willas’ gaze shifts away from Jaime, landing somewhere near the ground. “I’d make her a good husband, and I would never seek to take away the power that she has so rightly earned.”    
  
Jaime interrupts him with a hoarse cough before shoving the parchment into the folds of his cloak. “Very well, then. If there’s nothing else-”   
  
He rises and sharply turns toward the door, closing his left hand over the handle as WIllas says, “Wait...there is something else, Ser Jaime.”   
  
Heaving a great sigh, Jaime releases the door handle and steps back into the room.    
  
Willas’ tone is quiet and cautious as he continues, “I...I had a raven from my sister at the last moon.”    
  
A sudden pressure squeezes at Jaime’s temples, but he forces himself to keep his eyes open. “Oh?”    
  
“She says that Lord Tommen is adjusting to Braavos very well. He’s learning the Braavosi water dance, and he grows taller and stronger by the-”   
  
‘Yes, well. Good- it pleases me to hear it,” Jaime sputters as he backs toward the door, left hand fumbling for the handle. A curse escapes his lips when he trips over one of the glossy-haired puppies that litter the floor. He feels a brutal urge to kick the offending creature, but he only stretches his face into a sneer and says, “You really ought to keep these mongrels outside. I think I saw this one lift its leg on your pretty rug over there.”   
  
And with that, he sweeps from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.   
  
The next day, Jaime and his men ride from Highgarden in great haste. The Lord Commander holds his retinue to a punishingly-quick speed; he’d sent a raven to Winterfell after their departure, predicting a two-moon journey, but they arrive back at the Northern stronghold nearly a week earlier than that.    
  
He insists on the furious clip in an effort to distract him from what he’d learned at Highgarden. The information on Tommen smarted sharper than it should- he is grateful that the Dragon Queen allowed the one-time King and his wife an exile to the Free Cities in place of an execution, but he has no way to contact the boy. And while Margaery has sent a letter or two to Sansa, signed at the bottom in both her own elegant scroll and Tommen’s scrawling hand, nothing has ever arrived for Jaime. He reminds himself that he has no right to be upset, that there is no reason for the boy to want to be in touch with his uncle-father, the man who slew his mother-   
  
If he rides quickly enough, perhaps the heaviness will fall away, or at least wear down enough to be bearable. The weight of his sins, his follies, his poor decisions crushes at his bones-  _these are troubles that a good man, an honorable man like Willas Tyrell will never know._   
  
They ride through the gates of Winterfell in the dead of night. Much to the chagrin of Sansa’s sleepy, confused steward, Jaime marches into the east tower and toward Sansa’s chamber, deaf and blind to any who would object.    
  
His golden hand thwaps forcefully at her door- once, twice, three times. At last, she opens it- under other circumstances, he would chide her for her carelessness, opening her bedroom door in the middle of the night without first asking who stands behind it.    
  
But there she is, framed in moonlight, barefoot and clothed in nothing but a simple shift. Her hair falls loose and tousled around her shoulders, her face is unpainted; she’s just a girl, a sleepy girl rubbing the crust of sleep from her eyes, a radiant girl with a softly-blooming body, sweet and clean and fresh-   
  
_She deserves to be cherished, and she’ll have that from Willas Tyrell..._   
  
He cuts off his own train of thought by roughly wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her to him. She lightly brushes her fingers over the lapels of his surcoat. “You...you’ve arrived much earlier than I thought...”   
“Would you have preferred me to stay away for longer, Your Grace?” he asks with a glint in his green eyes.    
  
Full pink lips spread into a lazy smile as she reaches up to coil her arms around his neck. “No, ser, I would not.”    
  
Jaime backs her into her chamber before shutting the door firmly behind him. He’s rough with her, rougher than usual-  _with Willas, it would be nothing but soft touches and gentle kisses-_   
  
His hand presses hard into her soft skin, his mouth is hungry and demanding; he reaches down to scoop her up and carry her to the bed, sucking at her neck until she squeaks in protest; she doesn’t like to find marks on herself in the morning. But he wants to see, needs to see the evidence of his touches, to lay whatever petty claim to her that he can.   
  
They tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs; she helps him out of his surcoat and tunic, but balks when he tries to remove her shift (like always). And so he contents himself with kissing her through the thin silk, mouthing her nipples until they harden into peaks, nipping at the soft swell of bosom that peeks out the neckline.    
  
He cups her through her smallclothes, and her sweet little moans- “Jaime...yes, Jaime”- she likes to say his name, and Gods, how he likes to hear it- he knows not whether it is true, but in these moments, he lets himself believe that he is the only one, that his is the only name she says like this.    
  
Her tiny hand sneaks its way past the laces of his breeches, and she moves with careful, practiced strokes.  _Will she pretend for Willas, pretend to be a guileless maid rather than a skilled one?_   
  
She touches him, he touches her- they approach their peaks together, and Jaime feels the burning (as he always does at this point), the desperate desire to be inside her. But no, she says- even after two husbands and any number of potential claimants, she’s kept herself intact, and she means to remain so until the time is right.    
  
_And the time will never be right for you._   
  
Her climax comes first, all quick breaths and soft mewls, her little nails digging into his shoulder as her mouth latches to the side of his neck. He pushes himself into her hand, harder and faster, kissing her hard enough to bruise her lips before he releases his seed into her palm.    
  
As they lie together afterwards, Sansa rests her head on his chest, turning her face every now and then to press a kiss to his sweat-dampened skin. If she’s noticed his agitation, she makes no mention of it- her voice is light and sated when she asks, “How was your visit with Lord Tyrell?”   
  
“He’s agreed to give you what you ask,”Jaime answers before cupping her chin and drawing her up to his mouth. Perhaps if he can kiss her quiet, kiss her until she can no longer breathe, she’ll forget to ask, she’ll never have to know-   
  
“And what does he want in return?”   
  
Jaime’s lips cover hers, his tongue slipping into her mouth, his hand roaming her body and teasing at her most sensitive spots.   
  
But she keeps her eyes open and alert. When he is finally forced to break away from her to take a breath, she repeats the question.   
  
“Tomorrow” is his husky reply before he dips his head to kiss the hollow of her throat. “The hour is late, you must be tired-”   
  
“I’m quite awake now,” she says with a smile, but Jaime detects a hardness in her sweet blue eyes. “What does he want?”   
  
He scrambles for a lie, for a deflection, for anything at all. But she just fixes him with that steady stare, waiting...”You’re honest- sometimes compulsively so,” she’d told him in the early days, when he asked why she was willing to count a Lannister among her advisors. And her trust is what he has to cleave to now, after he’s failed so many before her-  _will you ever think of me when you wield your sword, Tommen?_  And if he fears that he’ll lose her to this marriage, he reminds himself, must always remind himself-  _you cannot lose what was never really yours._   
  
Jaime stands from the bed and crosses to the chair in the corner where he carelessly tossed his cloak. And after a single moment of hesitation (eyes closed, breaths short), he reaches into the folds and pulls out the crumpled parchment, his forefinger smoothing over the red rose seal.


End file.
